The Guard Captain's Reports: Aveline's Alphabet
by Mirabilis Mage
Summary: A series of vignettes about Aveline Vallen.
1. A is for Aveline

A is for Aveline

We have heard stories Spoken in welcoming words

A defender of the weak A daring wise woman

Merry marigold Golden girl

Large limbed Lovely Lioness

Orlesian called Overseas created

Kind hearted Killing hotly

Strong sword arm Sister of shining shield

Aveline Vallen


	2. B is for Blacksmith

B is for Blacksmith

She had trained and strained all of her life. She made her body, head, and heart strong, following a set of rules to a specific outcome: fighter, not chevalier. Ferelden, not Orlesian. She had obeyed her father, even if she had not done as he wished.

But the wounds of war run deep in Ferelden. The Orlesian occupation is only recently over and new threats loom on the horizon. For Aveline, it was a small miracle she was even able to train to fight. She might have grown up in Ferelden, but her name, her family marked her, scarred her.

She arrived at Ostagar ready to fight, ready to rage. Her father was not long dead and Wesley was far away. All she had was a sword and a shield, and she was ready to dance with both. But the distrust still ran high, fueled by fear and jingoism.

She wanted to help? She could bend iron, not wield it.

Aveline gritted her teeth. She knew she was a capable fighter and that she was loyal to Ferelden. She was an officer with the army! And now that army was saying. . . . Well. Life had been a struggle to prove the obvious. She briefly debated about returning to Denerim or some other city. Just in case. . . _just in case_ Ostagar didn't go according to plan, the other cities would need able defenders. But leaving wasn't an option, either. She wanted to defend her home, her people, even if they weren't quite sure they wanted her.

"Alright," she said, hand resting on sword handle. "Where is the forge?"

She picked her way through the camp, past the mages, Wardens, soldiers, dog trainers, past even the quarter-master. The smith was hunched over the anvil, heavy hammer in hand. Her hair was dark and her face darker, covered in soot and concentration.

"Captain Aveline Vallen, reporting for duty," she said, saluting.

The smith stood up, crossing her arms, assessing the red-haired woman. "Captain, did you get lost? Did you need something?"

Aveline sighed. "No, I'm. . . ." Being humiliated? Cast out from the very army she had served for years? Foolish? "I was asked to serve by tending the forge. My arm is strong. I know how to fight. I can learn how to forge or anything else you need."

The smith ran her hands through her hair, tying and retying her pony tail. "Well, Captain, there are a lot of soldiers out there who need to be prepared for battle. I'm grateful for your help. I'm Emma Underwood. Let's get going."

Emma found a blacksmith's apron for Aveline, brown leather and rough. There was not much time, before the battle; Aveline could not call herself a real blacksmith, not even an apprentice really. She fetched wood for the fire, carried metal and finished weapons, did some sharpening and repairing. She listened to Emma talk about her craft; Aveline absorbed the information, thinking it only right a soldier know her tools are made.

Still, as the battle loomed, Aveline made sure her own sword and shield were ready. Just in case.


	3. C is for Cake

**C is for Cake**

She never knows what to say when she arrives, but Aveline still visits Merrill anyway. She strides confidently into the alienage in light brown pants and a dark brown tunic, red striped scarf at her throat, and yet inside she shakes a bit. It's not nervousness. Recognition, maybe.

Merrill is always surprised to find the guard captain at her door, especially in casual clothes. It takes a minute for the elf to register that this is a _friendly visit_, not a reprimand or emergency.

"How are you today, Merrill?" Aveline asks, starting with a safe question.

"Aveline! Is everything all right? Of course it is. I'm all right. Come in!" Merrill opens the door wide, then scurries inside to clear a place for the other woman to sit. Papers, books, and half-burned candles litter the room.

"Thanks, Merrill. I just thought I'd say hello, see how you are." Aveline gingerly rests on the edge of a table.

"I've been reading today. Isabela was able to get a book for me -" Aveline raises her eyebrow – "no, not one of those books, not an _Isabela_ book, it's a book about the elvhen. I know most of it already, but I thought it might have something useful in it. Keeper Marethari can't know everything, but I want to learn as much as I can, so I've been reading. Everything."

Aveline smiles, appreciating Merrill's enthusiasm. "That sounds like a worthy goal, Merrill."

"Can I get you something to drink? Or eat? I'm such a bad host, I never have anything. . . ."

"No, I'm fine." There's a pause as the two alternate staring at one another and then into space. Racking her brain, Aveline finally says, "It's a lovely day, Merrill. Surely you're not going to spend it inside? Do you have anything fun planned?"

Merrill smiles. "Well, my last adventure with Hawke was enough fun to last awhile." Aveline returns the smile. "But I was thinking I'd just continue my reading. It's my -" Her eyes grow large and she stops mid-sentence.

"What is it, Merrill?"

"It's my birthday. Do humans celebrate birthdays? It's hard to know sometimes what you find important."

Aveline cocks her head. "We do! We should tell Hawke, or at least Isabela. We should do something, have a party."

"Oh no, no, I don't want to bother them. Birthdays with the clan are quiet, solemn things. So reflecting on my people's history seems an appropriate way to spend it."

Aveline crosses her arms. She doesn't want to push Merrill. Yet she spends so much time alone already. "What if I made you a cake?"

Merrill furrows her brows. "A cake?"

"Yes, it's a sweet - "

Merrill chuckles. "I know what cake is! I never pictured you baking, is all."

Aveline frowns, unsure what to say.

Merrill sense something is wrong, and gushes an apology. "I'm sorry, Aveline. You can do so many things, why wouldn't you be able to bake a cake? I should learn to keep my mouth shut!"

Aveline relents. "It's okay. But I imagine you don't have any of the ingredients here?"

Merrill shakes her head. Aveline nods and then stands. "Let's go, then."

On the way to the market, Aveline asks, "Merrill, may I ask a. . . .delicate question?"

"Of course."

"What do. . . what do you do for coin? I just want. . .I just want to make sure you are okay."

Merrill is quiet for a moment, staring at the ground. "Thank you, Aveline. Well, when I'm out with Hawke, we find coin here and there. Otherwise, I don't need very much."

Aveline nods, hoping she hasn't put her foot in her mouth.

At the market, Aveline closes her eyes, thinking. Yes, she can bake, but it has been a very long time, indeed. It was a recipe passed down from her mother – well, not that Aveline had learned it from her mother, but from an aunt. The Orlesian aunties had been insufferable most of the time, but Aunt Jehanne loved to bake and made sure little Aveline knew the basics. The recipe had been drilled into her head just like any fighting technique. It was a matter of recovering it.

"Flour, sugar, eggs, cinnamon," she mutters. The two women quickly gather the ingredients, and soon head back to the alienage.

As Merrill cleans out bowls and tends to the fire, Aveline takes a deep breath, trying to remember Aunt Jehanne's lessons. How much flour, how much sugar? Should she have bought currants, too? She squares her shoulders. "I can do this."

Merrill presents the cleaned dishes and helps Aveline measure out ingredients. Aveline explains about learning this recipe from her aunt. "Do the Dalish have cake?"

"We have sweet breads, or little cakes made with honey. Sugar is hard to get when you're in the forest."

"Does the Keeper know a lot of recipes?" Aveline is pleased to see that her warrior training allows her to much more easily mix the batter.

Merrill frowns a moment, thinking. "Not really. There are others in charge of food and cooking. The Dalish don't really have a lot of special food recipes, not anymore. We eat what I'd guess you'd call 'outdoor' food, whatever we can hunt or gather."

Aveline pours the batter into the pan. "I suppose it makes more sense to have special recipes if you're always in one place and can access the ingredients."

Merrill nods, watching the batter. Aveline offers hers the bowl and spoon before putting the pan into the fire. The elf smiles as she licks both clean.

"I don't think much about food," Aveline says, watching Merrill. "As a soldier or a guard, you just eat what you're served. But it's nice to be able to share moments like this. You never met my aunt or my mother, but now you have a small part of them."

Merrill breaks into an even larger smile. "Perhaps Isabela can get me some more books. Or Varric. Maybe I'll find some Dalish recipes."

Aveline looks around the room. What to discuss while the cake is baking? "Merrill, tell me what you were reading about earlier."

"Oh! Well. . . ."

The cake is carefully removed from the fire; for once, the house smells comforting, not like mice. Aveline carefully slices pieces for each of them.

Merrill's eyes light up after taking a bite. "This is really good!"

Aveline raises her eye brows.

"I mean, of course it would be. Thank you, Aveline."

"Happy birthday, Merrill."

**Epilogue**

Aveline sits at her desk, organizing paper work. A small figure appears in the doorway. The guard captain looks up. "Hello, Merrill! Something I can do for you?"

Merrill is shy at first, but finally presents a small package from behind her back.

"What's this?"

Merrill sets it on the desk, untying the string. As the paper falls away, Aveline sees a small cake.

"I made this for you," Merrill says. "I don't think it's your birthday, but I thought you'd like it. It's a Dalish recipe! I found a few, and I've been talking to some of the other elves in the alienage. I've been practicing, I think you'll like this."

Aveline rips a small piece from the cake and tentatively takes a bite.

"Merrill, this is really good." Aveline means it.

Merrill smiles. "I was thinking I might make more. It's hard to get good food in the alienage. Thanks to you and Hawke and everyone, I can get good ingredients. I thought I might bake sometimes, and I could. . .I'd give them away if I could, but maybe sell them for a tiny bit. Then I wouldn't have to rely on Hawke's adventures for coin."

Aveline nods. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

Merrill takes a piece of cake. "There's still so much to recover. But this is a start. Thanks, Aveline."


	4. D is for Darkspawn

D is for Darkspawn

Aveline usually sleeps well. She is physically active, satisfied with her work, surrounded by good friends. Insomnia knows better than to stalk her. Most nights she is too exhausted to be kept awake by worry or bad dreams.

As everyone is, she is still connected to the Fade. In her dreams, sometimes she sees her parents, or Wesley, or her friends – every once in a while, a certain mutton-chopped guardsman. Sometimes she fights bandits without her pants or has forgotten to practice her maneuvers before a big battle. Sometimes she can fly and smile. Normal dreams.

But the Guard Captain is troubled by nightmares occasionally, maybe once or twice a year. Aveline has her regrets and her failures, and keeps them close in her waking hours so that she won't make those mistakes again. But her dreams are usually simple. So blessedly the nightmares are rare. But they do happen.

They are predictable: grey haze, rain, and Darkspawn. Sometimes they overwhelm her, filling every space as they did at Ostagar. And sometimes it is but a single one, but that one Darkspawn is enough to take and break her heart.

She does not wake up screaming from these dreams, or in a sweat; that old cliché is not a true one. But she does force herself awake and she is alone in the barracks. The strong young men and women nearby know hardship, but their knowledge is not enough. Their knowledge, confined as it is to the Free Marches, is too smooth and clean.

So Aveline quietly slips on her civilian garb and finds her way to the Hanged Man. Isabela and Varric are always there. They understand hardship. And even if they do not know hers, they know the wider world and the horrors it contains. Even so, they do not discuss these things. They drink and play Wicked Grace and elegantly avoid talking.

As she stumbles home, she thinks how funny it is – that's not the word, there is no word – that the Darkspawn destroyed nearly all that she loved and yet also rebuilt her world, too.


End file.
